


Invitations

by ModSpy



Category: Team Fortress 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 14:44:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16177223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModSpy/pseuds/ModSpy
Summary: After being laid off from your jobs as mercenaries, you and Sniper have been living together happily. A sudden invitation could cause their life of relaxation to come to an end.





	Invitations

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my folder for, no joke, two years now. I decided it's time to share more of my work, so if this does well, then I'll continue it!

A gentle knock wakes me, but my eyes remain closed. In my mind, I curse whoever is at the door for interrupting my slumber. A few grumbles slip past my lips, earning a soft chuckle from the man resting beside me. My eyes peek open sleepily to watch said man. The bed creaks as he sits up to stretch. 

“I’ve got it,” his voice is dripping with grogginess, and it makes that beautiful Australian accent of his even more adorable. I mumble my gratitude into the pillow as he lifts the covers to stand. I shiver at the brief feeling of cool air on my side. Another knock sounds over the noises coming from Mick as he shuffles through the dresser, tugging on a light brown pair of jeans. His steps are hurried as he exits the room and goes to answer the door. Once again, my eyelids fall and I begin to listen to his distant voice. 

Between the sounds of his voice is another man’s words. The man speaks with an accent, much like my lover, but rather than Australian, it’s French. I can’t make out any of the words being exchanged, but the mingling of accents is soothing, nonetheless. Soothing to a point that I feel myself drifting back into my slumber. Just as sleep begins to wash over me, a weight at my side shakes the feeling. 

“I wouldn’t fall back asleep ‘less y’ want your breakfast cold,” the words become mumbled as the man speaking them places kisses on my face. I grumble and reach out for him, eyes still closed. My hands are blocked by his own. 

“Ah, ah,” he scolds, “I ain’t comin’ down; you’re getting up.” I groan, but do as he says and sit up, the grogginess apparent in my eyes as I open them. He smirks, amused by my actions, before pressing a quick kiss to my lips. 

“Now, come eat.” With that, he stands and exits the bedroom. 

I attempt to rub the sleepiness out of my eyes and stretch. My bare legs are cold as I remove the blanket and move to the dresser. I smile to myself as I shuffle through the drawer Mick has left open in search of pants. I decide against changing my outfit completely and, instead, pull on a worn pair of pajama pants. I lean into the bedroom’s door frame and watch tanned hands pour a mug of steaming coffee. With large strides, I make my way across the open kitchen and wrap my arms around the waist of my lover. I must have been out for a few minutes, at least, as he now has a red linen button up on. 

“Who was at the door before?” 

He reaches up to retrieve another mug from the cabinet, “Spook stopped by; said somethin’ about a get together.” 

My eyes widen and I blink a few times. “Spy?” The French accent suddenly makes sense. I release his frame as he places a warm mug in my hands and steps past me. He takes a seat at the table and I follow suit. 

A thin card is flicked across the table, “Yeah, a reunion of sorts.” I set the mug down to examine the card. Mick seems as though he’s not interested in his run-in with Spy nor Spy’s invitation. He leans back in his chair and sips at the coffee in his ‘#1 Sniper’ mug. 

Ignoring my own drink, I look over the card. The card is white with deep blue borders and cursive in the same color. I read over the letter and find that it isn’t so much an invitation from Spy as it is a request from Miss Pauling. Or so says Spy within the letter. At the bottom, Spy has signed the letter with his birth name, Laurent. It’s a small gesture, but one that reminds me of the close relationship Mick and I share with him. 

“Plan on going?” I replace the card on the table and pick up my mug to drink from it. 

“Course we are.”


End file.
